But everything remained silent.
And then, thick smoke, gray against the black sky, rose from the building. Then orange-gold flames glowed behind the thatched roof. Sparks flew like flies with fiery wings into the darkness above and disappeared.
The English ran around the camp. Worried outcries filled the air. They went to the well and passed the bucket of water towards the house.
Alan leaned towards Ian. “Now?”
“Nae yet,” Ian said. “Wait.”
Tension crackled around the Highlanders like a lightning charge. They leaned forward, their postures stiff like wolves about to launch, faces tense, eyes dark in the growing glow of fire before them.
Ian could barely hold his own body back, his legs taut as bowstrings.
And then the moment came. There was not a single man down in the farm who wasn’t trying to put the fire out.
Ian raised his arm high for everyone to see, then swung it down.
“Cruachan!” Ian said, not quite a cry and not quite a whisper.
It had enough strength and power for his men to echo it, but they all did so quietly enough that the enemies would not hear.
Like wolves, they moved stealthily through the night, claymores glistening in the light of fire.
Ian slashed his first sleeping man with no more sound than the gurgling of a cut throat, ignoring the twitch of guilt in his chest. He slayed the second one, who was lying next to the first. His men around him were doing the same, and soon, the air filled with the sounds of quick death.
A third man raised his head and opened his eyes, but Ian cut his throat. Pain and the realization of death in the man’s eyes bruised Ian.
More and more were waking up. More swords gleamed orange in the light of fires. More and more screamed as steel cut their throats and sank into their flesh. The metallic clash of swords combined with the roar of flames as dark figures fought and the red-orange storm consumed the farmhouse.
Ian’s lungs filled with the acrid, smoke-filled air. Chaos spread around him. There were so many more English than Highlanders, and Ian could only hope that the courage and spirit of his people would help them win when everything was against them.
Out of the darkness and smoke, a man came at him—a knight, wearing chain mail but no other armor. Flames shone against the bright metal as the Englishman raised his sword. Ian’s claymore met it with a loud bang above his head, the impact going through his muscles like ripples on the water. The man pulled his weapon back for the next strike, and Ian spun out of the way and hit him against the chain mail. The man grunted, and Ian used the moment to thrust his sword into the man’s face. But his claymore was blocked at the last moment, and the man hit Ian in the cheekbone with his elbow.
Ian’s bone cracked from the iron-heavy hit, white spots flashing against his vision. His head spun, and another hit sent him back.
No. Not like this.
He called for all the might he had, for all fury. He roared, louder than the screams around him. Louder than the howling fire. He came at the man with downward strikes, his muscles light and singing with purpose. With one final strike, he crushed the chain mail and planted his sword in the man’s chest. The knight fell, and Ian didn’t watch the moment of death in the man’s eyes.
He didn’t need to.
Looking around, he saw many more fallen Highlanders than fallen English, and fear mixed in with his fury, like a splash of poison.
No. He couldn’t let fear sway him, or allow himself guilt or compassion towards the enemy. They had none towards him or his people. They would have none towards Kate.
He screamed again. “Cruachan!” He called for the last bits of courage and strength left in him and his people.
His blade flashed red before his eyes as he ran into the skirmishes.
“Here!” he cried. “Here, ye English bastarts. Ye pig cocks. Here, take me!”
And as heads turned to him and three men ran at him, he went somewhere else. To the place where his head became empty. Where body and his instincts reigned, where his claymore sang its uneven, deadly song. Where he was free of thought and doubt.
He set the killer within him free.
Bodies fell. His blade sprayed blood. He sweated and ached. And his sword wanted more.
He didn’t know how long he fought before a familiar face staring up into the sky made him stop. Alan. Dead. A gaping wound in his stomach.
Ian turned around and saw more Highlanders wounded or dead. Alpin Mac a' Bhàird, Caden Rosach, Donal Umphraidh… Many, many more. He became aware of the smell of burning flesh and woodsmoke in the air, so thick he could taste it on his tongue. Nausea rose in his throat.
They were losing.
They’d already lost. He could see only half of his men still standing, and many more English.
His stomach sank. What had he done—he’d sentenced his people to slaughter. Two men fought with Frangean, and Ian went towards him to help.
Ian didn’t see the man coming until he was upon him, a big Englishman with a wolfish grin. A huge, black-haired monster of a man. His sword gleamed as it came towards Ian’s throat. He wouldn’t even have a moment to block him.
Goodbye, Kate.
He closed his eyes.
A low, pained grunt came… But Ian didn’t feel anything. He opened his eyes. A spear pierced the man’s stomach, his hand grasping the end that protruded.
“Cruachan! Cruachan!” called dozens of voices over the rumble of horses’ hooves.
From the darkness of the woods, the fierce riders descended, swinging their swords, cutting down the shocked English.
Who?
Craig’s drawn face among the first row of the riders said it all. Owen rode right next to him, taking down the English one after another.
They came.
With renewed strength, Ian
